


Momentum

by thirtypercent



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Background Femslash, Background Relationships, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Het, Het and Slash, Inexperienced Sherlock, M/M, Male Slash, Masturbation, Multi, POV Sherlock Holmes, Romance, Slash, Voyeurism, but also with the feelings, emotions are plot right?, let's just assume everyone is bisexual, more tags TBD, this is really rather porny
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-17
Updated: 2013-11-09
Packaged: 2017-12-29 15:49:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1007230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thirtypercent/pseuds/thirtypercent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Irene has a proposition, and Sherlock accepts. For science. </p><p>Not because of any unresolved feelings for a certain flatmate.</p><p>It's just research. Right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been percolating in my head in some form or another ever since I first watched A Scandal in Belgravia. I'm excited to finally get it into the wild! This takes place mid-ASiB and then diverges from canon. Let's just pretend Moriarty doesn't exist. :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to all the people who let me talk their ears off, particularly [tiltedsyllogism](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tiltedsyllogism), who sure does get to see the sausage being made. Also destinationtoast, patternofdefiance, hbbo, interrosand, and the lovely folks in #antidiogenes and #innercircle for reading, beta-ing, and otherwise encouraging me.
> 
> Wow, I sure haven't been able to shut up about this, have I? At any rate, I hope you like it.

The stones sift through Sherlock’s fingers as easily as water, cool and smooth. He catches one before it slips away, worrying it between thumb and forefinger. It’s oddly hypnotic: the occasional rasp of callus over stone the only interruption in the otherwise effortless motion. 

The silence of the flat is a near-tangible weight on his skin, all of London enjoying a lazy Sunday, apparently. John is off at the shops, Mrs. Hudson is visiting her niece.

Eyes closed, he slumps further down in his armchair, stretching his bare feet in front of him, and raises the stone to his lips, considering.

It’s grown slightly warmer than the ambient temperature, thanks to his fingers, but it’s still cool against his skin. He rubs it over his lower lip, more sensitive than fingertips. Minor imperfections. Some veining, worn until nearly imperceptible: the barest catch, nothing more. He touches the tip of his tongue to its surface.

Mineral. Residual salt from handling. Nothing distinctive. Unlikely Ogden Marsh went about tasting the stones, anyway, expert or not.

He considers.

_Tiger’s eye?_

He opens his eyes and scowls.

_Rose quartz._

It’s just too unlikely. Tourmaline and turquoise, maybe. Obsidian and opal, certainly. But the malachite and tiger’s eye and garnet and topaz: they’re just too similar. The weight, the texture: even factoring in Marsh’s experience, there can’t be more than a twenty percent chance he’d choose the same stone on a single try, let alone eight times in a row. The chances would fall to less than 0.1 percent. 

He must be the murderer. Marsh hadn’t been sitting in the dark, sorting gems as practice. No, the lights were on, Marsh had been waiting to confront his nephew about the missing jewelry, and he’d mindlessly sorted out the tiger’s eye as was his habit when nervous. 

With the light on, Marsh certainly wouldn’t have mistaken Francis for an intruder, keyless and climbing in the window or not. 

He’s certain. Well, nearly certain. Unless he’s missing something.

He drops the stone back into the bowl in disgust. _Semiprecious stones_. Advertising drivel for idiots, no doubt. About as sensical as _partially priceless_ or _mildly invaluable_. He envisions the ad campaigns and suppresses a shudder.

Well, he might as well let Lestrade know. He pats the empty pockets of his dressing gown, and growls. His phone’s in the kitchen.

He pitches his voice to carry up the stairs. “John, I need you.”

Silence.

Right. At the shops. Useless.

He groans, letting his head fall back and arms sprawl wide, and glares up at the ceiling. 

The kitchen! Dull, and so very far away. Where _is_ John?

After an interminable wait, during which time Sherlock devises and then discards three separate plots to draw John home from the shops without leaving his armchair, John’s feet sound on the stairs.

“Finally! What in the world could you possibly be doing for so long at a _Tesco’s_?”

John emerges from the staircase as if ejected, an incongruous spring in his step. He comes bearing the expected milk, biscuits, fruit, and tinned food of sorts Sherlock finds consistently disgusting, along with something unexpected.

A bouquet of flowers.

Sherlock narrows his eyes. “You’re inviting a woman over.”

John is unruffled in the way only unfounded optimism can make him, popping the flowers into a vase and humming. It’s repulsive. “Indeed I am.”

John’s foolish grin irks Sherlock on a cellular level. An itch under his skin, a vibration in the backs of his teeth. He scowls. “Quit looking so pleased with yourself.”

“I’m about to have a _very_ good weekend.”

“Nothing in this world is good enough to merit that ridiculous expression.”

“You can’t faze me, Sherlock. Olivia is coming over, it’s a sure thing, we’re going to have a lovely weekend, and you can’t ruin it.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes, then jumps to his feet and stalks into the kitchen. 

He takes in John’s clothing, grocery selection, meticulous grooming and suspiciously cheerful manner. “Olivia. Not a new girlfriend: someone you know well, or did, years ago. Old schoolmate, perhaps? Yes, but not a girlfriend: you’re not torn about seeing her. A friend, and an occasional… _intimate_ partner. Coming out of the woodwork, years later. Recently divorced, most likely; living somewhere quiet and stodgy, come to London for the weekend to reclaim some lost youth. With you, in part.”

“Okay, that’s enough -- I’d rather not be traumatised before I’ve had my tea. Budge over, I need to put the groceries away.”

Sherlock grudgingly cedes six inches of counter space. John leans past him to shelve biscuits and tea, and knocks Sherlock’s hip with his own. “I even got those tarts you like.”

“Bribery? Isn’t that beneath you?”

“No. And accepting isn’t beneath you.”

“I suppose you want me to be charming.” Sherlock curls his lip.

“Nope.”

“No?”

“I want you to ignore her completely. Just pretend we’re not even here. That should be familiar enough.”

Sherlock folds his arms, and twitches a shoulder in John’s direction. “Fine.”

John closes the cupboard, and drops a palm onto Sherlock’s shoulder, squeezing once. “Thank you.” Sherlock’s gaze jumps up. 

John meets his eyes, smile turning hesitant at the edges. “Just.” He licks his lips. “I need this, okay?”

A sarcastic response about the necessity of sex with near-strangers dies in Sherlock’s throat, and he nods. He’s rewarded with another squeeze of John’s hand before it slips away. Sherlock rolls his shoulder, experimentally.

He waits for John to ask him about the bowl of gemstones under his arm. He’s still waiting when John finishes up in the kitchen and climbs the stairs to his room, whistling something excessively jaunty.

Sherlock plucks another stone from the bowl and slips it into the pocket of his dressing gown, sliding his thumb over the polished surface without a glance.

One more try.

 

****

 

Curiosity over this _Olivia_ (who knew John as a uni student, of all fascinating things) wars with his distaste of witnessing John mid-courtship, a typically excruciating affair of affable small talk and flirtatious smiles.

He glances out the window.

The sullen drizzle that’s been gracing London for the past week is perfect to test out some hypotheses he’d developed around footprints, mud, and the weight distribution of crutches.

Decision made, he retreats to his room long enough to change out of his dressing gown and locate three pairs of crutches in the back of his closet. He hesitates only briefly in the doorway, plucking the mystery stone from his dressing gown and slipping it into his trousers pocket. 

Then he’s charging down the stairs while John’s still in his room, no doubt preparing for his _lovely weekend_.

 

****

 

He returns to Baker Street four hours later, soaking wet and weighed down by roughly half of Regent’s Park. His fingers have long since gone numb, and he lost fine motor control ninety minutes earlier, but he’s armed with all the data he needs for an update to _The Science of Deduction_. “The Effects of Tread Variation on Depressions in Damp Soil.” The idiots who read John’s blog may not appreciate it, but he deals in facts, not melodrama.

Satisfied, he props the crutches in the entryway, toes off his muddy shoes by the door, and shucks his coat in the en suite before raiding the fridge.

Ah yes, two of those lemon tarts are lurking near the back, a happy six inches away from the marinating toes. He snags them both, carrying them into his room along with John’s laptop.

The flat is dark and still, but muffled voices drift down the stairs and through the floorboards, punctuated by tinkling laughter and tipsy _shushing_. They sound like a pair of teenagers away at boarding school. Is there anything more obvious than an amorous couple attempting to keep quiet?

As the minutes tick by, the pauses between the words stretch longer and longer, and eventually fade into soft moans and bitten-off curses and the creak of bedsprings.

Sherlock’s progress on his blog post diminishes from _limping_ to _nonexistent_ , and he snaps the laptop shut with a growl. He slides down into his bed, rolling onto his stomach and pressing a pillow over his head.

Why? It makes no _sense_. He seethes. Inducing orgasms doesn’t actually require the input of another person -- in fact, another partner is likely to be _less_ effective at it, if anything. Why John insists on spending all this time and going through these silly machinations, all for--

His train of thought grinds to a halt at a sound that can be nothing other than John Watson having an orgasm. A flush steals up Sherlock’s neck. Embarrassment, no doubt.

 

****

 

The next morning dawns clear and bright, as Sherlock can attest to firsthand, still awake and pacing about the sitting room. His seething frustration has settled into skin that feels a bit too tight.

He peers through the blinds down at Baker Street, at the cars lined up like children’s toys, clean and bright and gleaming in the early morning sun. It reeks of optimism and new beginnings, and he turns his back to the window. In an act of defiance, he retrieves a cigarette (secreted amongst the microscope slides) and climbs onto the fire escape on bare feet.

It’s colder than it looks, and the plume of smoke wars with the steam from his breath.

He smokes the cigarette down to the filter, watching the occasional intrepid pedestrian brave the early morning chill. His feet turn numb and his fingers uncoordinated, but he doesn’t climb back inside until the he hears the first stirrings of life drift down the stairs.

He collapses into bed and falls into a deep sleep, still wearing his dressing gown.

 

****

 

Muzzy and disorientated, he awakens hours later to an unfamiliar sound.

The muted hiss of running water, the rattle of dishes and clink of cutlery: the reassuring sounds of John washing up in the kitchen. Common enough. But there’s something else. 

John is _singing_. 

It’s atrocious - John’s abuse of the principles of melody would render it unrecognizable even if it was something he knew. No doubt it’s some specimen of whatever passes for popular music these days.

He rolls out of bed, dressing gown twisted around his body, and strides into the kitchen.

“What are you doing?”

John glances over his shoulder, flicking soap suds into the sink. The upward trajectory of his eyebrows suggests Sherlock’s hair has reached an advanced state of disarray. “Dishes?” 

“I mean that… _singing_.”

“Oh, sorry. Did I wake you?”

Sherlock scowls, and moves toward his microscope, perching on the stool and peering through the eyepiece, though the slide he prepared last night has long since desiccated. “It’s fine.”

John flicks the kettle on. “Tea?”

“Mm.” Sherlock stares into the microscope, idly twisting a knob, and listens to John pull mugs from the cupboard and spoons from the drawer. “Where’s your girlfriend?”

“Visiting friends. She’ll be back tonight. And she’s not my girlfriend.”

Conversation subsides into the clink of spoon against ceramic. And then John starts to hum.

Sherlock’s palms fall to the table, his fingers splaying over scarred wood. “ _Why_?”

“Why what?”

“Why does this make you so happy?”

John pauses. “You know how I feel about tea.”

“Don’t be obtuse, John.”

John shrugs one shoulder, diffident. “Sex. With someone you like. It makes most people happy.”

“But she doesn’t even live in _London_! She’ll go back to whatever miserable little town she lives in, and you’ll never see her again.”

“It’s still nice.” John sets a mug of tea on the table and nudges it in Sherlock’s direction.

“It’s just so… _pointless_.”

“To you, maybe.” John frowns, sniffing the air. “Have you been smoking?”

Sherlock’s fingers curl, and he stares at the lazy whorls of steam rising from his tea. “I’m going to Bart’s. I’ll probably be late.”

John sighs. “Great, have fun. Don’t adulterate too many corpses.”

 

****

 

Midnight finds him sprawled on his back in his darkened bedroom, gaze fixed on the ceiling. He’d meant to stay out most of the night, perhaps to check on his homeless network, but something drew his feet back to Baker Street after he’d finished up at the morgue.

Once again, the sounds of a happy couple soak through the floorboards, and once again, Sherlock tugs at his hair in frustration.

He's not missing anything. Is he?

His phone sighs obscenely, lighting up the room with its lurid blue glow. 

Irene.

She likely has a sixth sense for couples in compromising positions.

After a few moments, the screen goes dim, and he’s plunged into darkness once more. Thirty-seven seconds pass before he huffs and snatches the phone off the nightstand, waking up the screen with one thumb.

He opens his messages and scrolls through weeks of one-sided conversations. _Let’s have dinner_ and _I like your funny hat_ and _you looked sexy on Crimewatch_ , until he reaches the most recent.

“Fancy a nightcap?”

His thumb hesitates over the keyboard. A particularly enthusiastic moan sounds from upstairs.

He taps out a reply. 

“I’ll come to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a short chapter to start us off, but Chapter 2 is written and in the final editing stages, so I hope to have it posted very soon. Thank you for reading. <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She leans forward, one palm against the back of the chair next to his head, and smooths his lapels. “I’ll ask one more time. If you don’t give me an answer I like, you leave.” She leans closer, her breath warm in his ear, and goosebumps rise on his skin. Her voice drops to a purr. “Why are you here?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you to tiltedsyllogism, destinationtoast, interrosand and patternofdefiance for their brainwaves on this. And provocatrixxx for the last-second Brit check. You are all lovely and very patient with me. <3

He steps out of the cab in Belgravia. The streets are stately and still, a far cry from the raucous pub crawls and stag nights and throngs of tourists bustling through other corners of London. Before his hand reaches the buzzer, the front door opens, silent on well-oiled hinges. 

Despite the hour, Kate is pressed and polished, as sleekly professional as ever -- except for a sly dimple that plays at the edge of her smile.

She takes his coat and ushers him into the sitting room, leaving him with a glass of sparkling water and a “why don’t you make yourself comfortable?” tossed over her shoulder as she saunters up the stairs on improbable heels. 

She leaves him to languish in the sitting room for eleven minutes, thrumming his fingers against the arm of his chair and watching bubbles of CO2 break the surface of his water. The ticking clock chafes, obscenely loud in the stillness of the room -- who bothers with noisy clocks in the digital age? 

Nearly one in the morning. Judging by their earlier trajectory, John and his _bed partner_ were likely asleep by now. No longer filling the flat with distracting noises. Perhaps once he returned he’d be able to finish that blog post on the soil--

And then Irene drifts down the stairs in a cloud of green, mostly transparent silk.

She pauses in the doorway, no doubt aware of the picture she makes, the elegant lines of her body clear in the light of the hall lamp. Her eyes are cool and assessing as they travel over him. “You actually came.”

“Clearly.”

She draws closer, one finger trailing down the gauzy neckline of her gown. “Why?”

He frowns, twitching his shoulders. “Isn’t it obvious?”

She doesn’t pause a polite distance away, doesn’t hesitate before nudging his knees apart to stand between them. She props one hand on her hip, and watches him. “It would be, if you weren’t… you.”

He meets her gaze. Her proximity is… startling, but not unpleasant. He can feel his heartbeat in his fingertips.

She leans forward, one palm against the back of the chair next to his head, and smooths his lapels. “I’ll ask one more time. If you don’t give me an answer I like, you leave.” She leans closer, her breath warm in his ear, and goosebumps rise on his skin. Her voice drops to a purr. “Why are you here?”

Sherlock holds himself carefully still, relieved to find his voice still works as expected, though the words emerge in a tumble. “Don’t be dim; it’s beneath you. You offered, I accepted. Don’t tell me you’d like to play coy.”

She smiles: a predatory thing, all teeth and no warmth. “Of course not. But tell me.” She draws a precisely manicured nail down the line of his jaw, tipping his chin upward. He doesn’t flinch. “Why now?”

He pauses, then lifts one shoulder. “Research.”

She raises an eyebrow.

He sighs. “Or aren’t you up for the job?”

“Oh, Sherlock. Of _course_ I’m up for the job.” She slides a knee between his legs, close enough he can feel the heat of her, and she slips a hand under his jacket to smooth over fine cotton.

His trousers are becoming far too tight, and his skin prickles on a wash of adrenaline. It’s the moment of stillness before a chase begins, the rising tide of inevitability just before a roller coaster tips over the first slope. 

He’s committed, now. His shoulders relax, and he smiles. 

She narrows her eyes. “Don’t think you’ve fooled me. I’ll get the whole story soon enough.”

Just as he begins reassessing the position of his hands, she slips off his lap and strolls toward the sideboard. She shoots him a glance over her shoulder. “I think this calls for a drink, don’t you?”

She pours cognac into two snifters, and Sherlock studies her in profile. The line of her arm, the curve of her spine, the arch of her neck. The clink of glass and burble of liquid: a careful choreography, elements of attraction arranged in a symphony as precise as any master composition.

He can respect that.

When she returns, two glasses in hand, she perches on the arm of his chair. He accepts the glass (fine, lead crystal, of course) and takes a sip without breaking her gaze. Warm and mellow, it likely rivals Ms. Adler in age.

“Pulling out all the stops, I see,” he says.

“I did promise you a drink.”

“How very... accommodating.”

“Sherlock,” she murmurs, sliding a finger along his cheek and tapping his nose reprovingly. “Are you calling me an easy woman?”

“Easy? Wouldn’t dream of it. I’m certain you’re anything but.”

Her leg swings, indolent and lazy, green silk trailing the motion in a way that likely had her usual clients composing sonnets. Her smile is smug as she follows the direction of his gaze.

He clears his throat. “You want to have sex. With me.”

“You _are_ a detective.”

He scowls. “What do you get out of this? Don’t pretend you’re besotted.”

“Isn’t physical attraction enough?”

He catches her wrist where her fingers idle on his lapels. “For you? No. I’m certain you have at least three distinct motives for every move you make.”

She meets his stare for a long moment. “Very well.” She turns her wrist free of his grip, and trails her fingers up his jaw to tap against his temple, once.

“Maybe I just want to see what makes this machine, here, tick.”

He huffs. “Take it apart, more likely.”

Her smile shows her teeth. “Isn’t that the same thing?”

“To you, I’m certain. Fine, do your best to turn me into one of your loyal lapdogs -- but you will fail, I assure you.”

“Ah. You _do_ know how to romance a girl.”

“What excellent luck you’re no ordinary girl.”

She places a palm to her chest. “Be still, my heart.”

He rolls his eyes, and she smiles. It might even be genuine.

She finishes her drink, and sets the glass on a side table. “So, shall we begin?”

He stills. “Now?”

“Oh, I thought the great detective didn’t ask obvious questions. That _is_ what you’re here for, isn’t it?”

“I’m not… inexperienced. Despite what my brother likes to tell people.”

“Oh, I think I can guess. You had just enough experience to decide you knew everything there was to know, and proclaimed it all a waste of time.”

His eyes narrow.

She smiles. “Sherlock. I think you’ll find that this will be _nothing like_ a bit of boarding school fumbling in the dark.”

She takes his glass from him and tips the last of the cognac into her mouth, and places his glass next to hers. She leans closer, taller than he is where she’s perched on the arm of his chair. Deliberate? Almost certainly.

She leans into his space, and the air warms between them. She cups his jaw in one hand, tipping his head back until their faces are aligned. He watches her eyes as they trail over him.

“Something tells me you’ll be a quick learner,” she murmurs, and then her lips meet his. Hers are warm, the cognac a heady weight on her tongue as it touches his.

The touch is deliberate: controlled and indulgent. Nothing like his (few, unfortunate) experiences in school. His heart starts to pound, a throbbing in his blood he can feel all the way to his toes. _Fascinating_. He does usually hate to be reminded that he’s just a human animal, after all, but at this moment vexation is the last thing on his mind.

She tilts her head and sinks into him, and he follows her lead. The urge to pull her closer is there, already, and he forces his hands to relax at his sides.

She breaks the kiss to hum into his ear. “Mm. Off to a good start, I’d say.” She punctuates her words with a sharp bite to his earlobe, and his entire body jerks, much to his surprise.

Her answering laugh is low and dark. “Like that, do we?”

“You startled me.”

“Oh? Would you like me to startle you again?”

He pauses, and brings his palm to rest at the small of her back, thumb tracing the bumps of her spine through thin fabric. It’s unexpectedly satisfying. “Yes.”

She braces her palms on his shoulders and slides into his lap. He raises his eyebrows, and she smiles back. Her fingers toy with his shirt buttons, drawing the fabric open by inches. He’s still wearing his suit jacket, and the line of his own exposed skin is nearly shocking in the dim light. She pauses halfway down his chest. “Now we’re even.”

Her knees straddle either side of his hips in the wide armchair. She lets her hands fall to his lap, where her fingers toy with the button of his flies.

“Here’s your first lesson,” she says.

His heart rate skips up. “Please, enlighten me.”

The backs of her fingers graze the fabric over his erection, and then she draws her hand away to slide up the back of his neck, fingers twining in the short hair there. She leans closer, her mouth centimetres from his, and touches her nose to his cheek. Her breath leaves goosebumps in its wake.

“Never underestimate the power of anticipation.”

She slips a hand into the open leaves of his shirt, and her palm slides warm over his chest.

He finds he’s holding his breath, and lets it out on a measured sigh, only to gasp when her thumb slides over his nipple. 

He could get lost in the motion of her fingers over his skin, but he’s always excelled at multi-tasking. He splays his palm where it rests at the small of her back, on fragile silk over warm skin, and slides his palm up the curve of her back. He watches: the slightest dilation of her pupils, the fractional lean into his touch.

He shifts under her, adjusting. Certainly _not_ squirming.

She raises her eyebrows, solicitous. “Mr. Holmes, are you uncomfortable?”

He frowns. “ _Ms. Adler_ , are you teasing me?”

“Are you telling me it’s not working?”

He huffs, and in a fit of bravado, wraps an arm around the small of her back and pulls her body against his. If he’d meant to topple her equanimity, though, he was out of luck: at the press of her body against the trapped ridge of his erection, he’s the one biting back a groan. 

She laughs, a small, amused puff of air in his ear. “Fine, fine.” She drops her hands to his trousers, and has the button open, the zipper down, and his erection out of his pants in one smooth motion. She wraps her hand around his cock, and he does yelp at that. 

She grins. “Better?”

His fingers sink into the arm of the chair, and he steadies his breathing. “Acceptable.”

“Good.” She plucks his hand off the chair, slotting her fingers between his, a strangely intimate sensation that sends a jolt through his spine. Her fingers seem small and delicate between his: a lie if ever he’s felt one. The marks from her riding crop lasted for days.

She brings his hand to her lips and nips at his index finger, then grins. “Now.” She guides his hand to his lap, wrapping his fingers around his cock. “Here’s where we start.”

He blinks, and nearly blurts “what?” into the room like one of Lestrade’s stable of imbeciles.

“Problem?”

“But this isn’t….”

“Sex?”

He may be distracted, but he senses the conversational pitfall yawning before him at that, and narrows his eyes in lieu of a response.

“Oh but it is. And don’t worry… I’ll help.” She squeezes her fingers where they’re wrapped around his, and he does groan at that, head dropping to the back of the chair.

“I assume you’re familiar with the mechanics.”

He scowls. “I’m perfectly functional, thank you.” He is familiar. But it’s typically quick and perfunctory, yet another biological checkbox in a long list of indignities inherent to the human body.

Not like _this_.

“Go on, then.”

He tightens his fingers and rubs his thumb over the head, experimentally. It’s different. Very, very, different. The sensation of being watched is unnerving, and he’s tempted to look away, so he meets her gaze head-on instead.

She laughs, low in his ear. “Not boring?”

“Not boring.”

She glides a hand up her own ribcage. “Don’t worry, you won’t be having all the fun.” Her hand covers her breast through nearly transparent silk, thumb teasing over the nipple, and he freezes, mesmerized.

She licks her lips, and his eyes dart to her mouth. She smiles, and nudges the neckline of her gown until it slips off one shoulder. Jolted into action, his fingers tighten on his cock and slide down the shaft. His hips twitch and the breath leaves his lungs in a gust.

Her eyes darken. “Much better.”

She leans over the arm of the chair, reaching into a small side table to retrieve a condom and discreet bottle of lubricant.

He huffs a laugh through the thick layer of arousal coating his skin. She winks at him. “Lesson two: always be prepared.”

She tears the condom wrapper with efficient movements, then nudges his hand away to roll it over his erection. He wrinkles his nose.

“Get used to it, sailor.”

His malcontent is forgotten when she slicks her hand with lube and strokes him, once. That is… very nice. She guides his hand back into place. “Don’t be shy.”

She drops her hand onto her own thigh, nudging open the part in her gown. He catches a brief glimpse of dark curls before her hand slips inside. 

She sighs at the contact, and he’s mesmerized by the motion of her hand as she strokes herself with unhurried ease. She leans forward, her free hand sliding around the back of his neck, and he shivers at the light scratch of her nails on his scalp. Self-consciousness forgotten, his hand on his cock falls into a familiar rhythm, the sensation is ratcheting up much faster than he’s used to.

She rests her forehead against his, and murmurs, low and throaty. “Slow down.”

He groans, but obeys, the tension in his muscles relaxing, the threat of imminent orgasm drawing back to become something lazy and indulgent, running hot and thick through his veins.

She brushes her lips over his temple, his jaw, and nips at the shell of his ear. “That’s it.”

The curve of her neck is bare in front of him, and in a moment of inspiration, he bends his head to the dip between her shoulder and throat. The heat of his breath and press of his lips and scrape of his teeth are rewarded with a shiver, and he can feel her smile against the line of his jaw.

She starts to rock against him, barely perceptible at first. His gaze drops, catching on the slickness of her fingers as she strokes herself. She notices, of course, and lifts them up to press an index finger against his bottom lip. 

He parts his lips on an inhalation, and tastes her, the whorls of her fingerprints clearly distinguishable against his tongue. 

He looks down, where her legs are parted over his lap, at the gleam of her where she’s slick and wet, just inches from his cock. _Shit_. His cock twitches in his hand and he squeezes, fighting the urge to speed up again. She drops her hand from his mouth to stroke herself once more, her body rocking against his in time with his own movements.

Her fingers drift to his wrist to guide his pace once more, and he realises with a jolt -- _slow, unforgivably slow_ \-- how she means for them to move together, and when he wraps an arm around the small of her back and presses her closer in time to the rock of her hips and the motion of his hand on his cock, something clicks in his gut, electricity zinging through his veins, the two of them in sync, now.

Their eyes lock as she moves against him, and her breath comes faster. She grins. “Now you’ve got it.”

The pace is deliberate and inexorable and just a little too slow to get him off, and he groans, thumb moving restlessly over her hip. He pants. “You’re... quite good, aren’t you?”

Her cheeks are flushed and tendrils of hair stick to her temples, but she grins. “Don’t say you had doubts.”

“Never.” He’s growing breathless, now, and his gaze drops to the tight pink bud of her nipple, and he can’t look away. Abruptly he needs to know the taste, and he ducks his head to press his lips open-mouthed to her skin, smooth and soft and just slightly salty, and then her nipple, stiff under his tongue. 

He groans against her skin, and then (applying a bit of symmetric logic), scrapes his teeth lightly against her. She groans, low and throaty, and then her hand speeds up, fingers gleaming in the low light. She rocks against him faster, and he speeds up in turn, and there it is, thank god, the pace sending sparks of pleasure through his veins.

He bites down, carefully, and her fingers sink into his hair and she lurches against him, her knees tightening around his thighs as she comes, her nails prickling his scalp and her breath hot on the nape of his neck.

He’s almost painfully hard now, and his hand speeds up on his cock as his head falls back. She relaxes against him, following him back to graze her lips against his, breathing the same air as he pants.

Their eyes lock just as a wave of pleasure hits him low in the spine. “ _Oh… oh_.” And then he’s gasping into her mouth, pulling her against him as his cock pulses in his fist, filling the condom in jags of sensation nearly painful in its intensity.

When the final wave subsides to the occasional twitch, his arm loosens and his head falls back onto the armchair with a thump. 

She raises her head, flushed but no less composed, smugness radiating from her smile. “Acceptable?”

He waits until he can speak without panting. “Clearly.”

“Lovely.” She presses a quick kiss to his cheek, and then slides off his lap, shrugging her gown back into place and re-tying the sash. “Well, Sherlock, it’s been fun, but I have an early morning tomorrow. And you'd best head home before _someone_ misses you. I’ll leave you to… clean up.” She waves a hand in his direction, and he’s abruptly aware that he’s fully dressed, down to the filled condom emerging from his trousers.

She glides out of the room, pausing at the doorway to turn toward him and wink. “Until next time.”

And then she’s gone.

He keeps his mouth from dropping open only through his sizeable force of will. He looks down at his lap. Well, at least he’s grateful for the condom, now.

Time to go home.

 

****

 

By the time he arrives back at Baker Street, the hours can’t even be charitably called small. Soon dawn will be breaking over the varied rooftops of London, but he won’t be sleeping for a long while yet.

He climbs the stairs to 221b in darkness, and lets himself into the sitting room with barely a sound.

After a few moments, his eyes adjust to the sodium glow of the street lamp outside the window, and abruptly he’s starving.

Drifting into the kitchen, he ransacks the cupboards until he finds some biscuits John bought to tempt him into civility before a meeting at NSY a few days ago. He frowns. That was only Tuesday, but it seems like ages ago, now.

He flicks on the kettle and pulls out a mug, for lack of anything better to do with his hands. He crunches through a few biscuits and then prepares tea largely on autopilot, about five trains of thought criss-crossing through his encounter with Irene. He nearly burns his tongue on his tea, and then sips more cautiously as he leans against the counter. His blood sugar must be low, because the soft sound of sleepy footsteps on the stairs makes his stomach tilt in peculiar ways. 

John appears in the doorway, blinking heavily in the light from the streetlamp, a study in monochromatic amber. Even from here, Sherlock can spot the sleep creases on his face, the tuft of hair askew over his left ear. 

“There you are,” John says.

Sherlock’s sarcastic lift of one eyebrow fails to quail.

“I was wondering where you’d got off to.”

Something lurches in Sherlock’s gut, at that. “Aren’t you supposed to be occupying your… friend?”

An idiotic, pleased grin slides onto John’s face. “She’s asleep. We had a busy night.”

Save him from preening idiots. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

John crosses the kitchen and nudges Sherlock to the side, reaching into the cupboard for another mug. “I heard you leave.” 

John drops a teabag into the mug and pours in the rest of Sherlock’s hot water. “So, what experiment was it this time? You’re not covered in blood and I don’t see any weaponry about, so I’ll assume the livestock of London is unscathed.”

Sherlock regards him over the rim of his mug. “It was more of a… sociological experiment. In human interactions.”

John hums at that, as he doctors his tea. His movements are easy and content, the line of his shoulders relaxed. This is what sex does for John, so why does Sherlock feel like climbing the walls? Differing intellects, most likely. John possesses that supremely frustrating, yet occasionally enviable skill of turning his mind off at will.

John turns where he stands, leaning back against the counter next to Sherlock. Companionable. “So, sociological experiments at three a.m. on a Friday. I hope you weren’t frightening little old ladies in their beds.”

“Of course not.”

John sniffs the air. “What is that? It smells like… perfume.”

Sherlock hunches his shoulders. “I don’t smell anything.”

John frowns, and leans closer. He sniffs at the air inches from Sherlock’s neck, and goosebumps rise on Sherlock’s skin. 

“It’s you.” John’s eyes widen. “Have you been… pulling?”

“No, John, I have not been picking up strangers in pubs.”

John visibly relaxes. “Right. Well. I guess I would’ve probably seen the pigs flying by the window. Or, you know, the four horsemen galloping by. Ha.”

Sherlock frowns. “What do you mean?”

John scratches his head. “Oh, just, you know, mister ‘not my area,’ and all. Not that, you couldn’t, ah. You know.”

Sherlock just stares at him until John winds down, grimacing. “As it happens, I don’t have to ‘pull’ strangers, as you so charmingly put it. I saw Irene.”

Sherlock deliberately meets John’s eyes to watch the moment of comprehension. He’s not sure what he wants to see there, and the thought is unsettling.

John’s eyes widen, again, and the verbal diarrhea recommences. “Oh. Right. Of course. So, you two… well then. Congratulations?” 

The questioning note appearing at the tail end of John’s ramblings sparks something hot and irritable in Sherlock’s gut, and he scowls. “It’s two people having a shag, not an announcement in the Guardian, John. Clearly you’re aware of how this works. There is no ‘us two.’”

John’s mouth falls open at that, and tea sloshes over the rim of his mug. “Well that’s… that’s still cause for congratulations, isn’t it?” Then, in a horrifyingly blokey show, actually claps Sherlock on the shoulder.

John’s company is abruptly intolerable. Sherlock plucks John’s hand from his shoulder and drops it, injecting his voice with the most withering tone he can summon. “Honestly, John. Have you ever known me to be in need of vapid platitudes?”

He abandons his tea to stride out a room gone too small. John’s speculative regard is a near tangible presence, lingering nearly as long as the warmth of John’s hand on his shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *collapses onto floor in heap*


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Grudging, he lets his mind slide back to Saturday, and it’s as easy as it is galling._
> 
>  
> 
> _She’d been framed in the doorway, intentionally to be sure, one hand on her hip, exuding the unmistakable air of one who knows more than they’re telling._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks tiltedsyllogism and destinationtoast for the beta work, and provocatrixxx for the Britpicking! The word cowboy has been summarily purged. :D

Sherlock props his shoulder against the window, eyes fixed on the ebb and flow of Baker Street below. Black cabs and motor bikes and impatient pedestrians: central London clockwork as changeable as it is predictable.

He turns the stone in his pocket round and round, in time with the tick of his brain, conjuring and discarding theories with the regularity of a metronome.

Ogden Marsh. Fifty-two-year-old jeweler. Claims he was sat in the dark, sorting precious stones by touch like some sort of cave-dwelling magpie. Absurd. _And yet_.

Temperature?

Weight?

Resistance to cold?

No, no, no. He’s considered them all. He very nearly growls, hunching his shoulders and pressing his forehead to the glass.

A few feet away, John pecks away at his laptop, as painstaking as ever. The uneven _tap-tap-tap_ crawls between Sherlock's shoulders and makes a home at the base of his skull.

His phone trills in his pocket. Lestrade, of course.

> So what do you say about Marsh? Running out of time here

Sherlock frowns, and taps out a response.

> Unclear. SH

The reply comes only moments later. Lestrade must be growing accustomed to the new mobile -- or perhaps his ire motivates him to new heights of texting prowess. 

> You? Unclear??

Sherlock’s phone rings, and he sends the call to voicemail before firing off another text.

> If I have something, I’ll tell you. In the meantime, try exercising your atrophied detecting skills. SH

Sherlock silences his phone and tosses it onto the sofa, scrubbing his fingers in his hair. He just needs to _concentrate_.

He returns his hand to his pocket. The surface of the stone is smooth, but perhaps a cleanser or polish could affect each type differently. He’ll need to conduct another search of the premises.

_What else?_

His mind flickers back over the crime scene, Lestrade’s interrogation, the suspect’s denial. A small shabby flat, a bowl of shining stones.

A twirl of green silk. A parting wink.

Grudging, he lets his mind slide back to Saturday, and it’s as easy as it is galling.

She’d been framed in the doorway, intentionally to be sure, one hand on her hip, exuding the unmistakable air of one who knows more than they’re telling.

_Head home before someone misses you._

He hadn’t considered her words deeply at the time; he’d let his mind grow unforgivably foggy. But it was no throwaway remark: Irene wielded words as precisely as she did semi-transparent fabrics.

What was she playing at? She couldn’t mean John: she might enjoy needling him over their living arrangement, but she must know Sherlock is indifferent to such assumptions. Surely she couldn’t be suggesting actual _sentiment_ on John’s part, toward Sherlock of all people.

John had appeared shortly after Sherlock returned home, true, but insomnia was hardly surprising in an army veteran with PTSD and an unfamiliar (no doubt drooling) bedmate.

A dig, then, at the absurdity of such a suggestion? Or perhaps at Sherlock’s overreaching prat of a brother?

He grits his teeth. The woman does love to cultivate mystery. 

He returns his regard to the foot traffic flowing down Baker Street. No great mystery, there. Elderly woman in the incongruous raincoat: lived in Central London since the war, can’t abide the thought of moving to (greener, cheaper) pastures, no matter how her grandchildren fuss. Thirty-something year old woman with the H&M bags: considering leaving her husband for a woman. Two children running (giggling) down the street, hand in hand, escaped from some nanny who will no doubt come charging down the pavement after them, presently.

Transparent.

His fingers itch. He needs more data. He retrieves his phone from the sofa, only to find a text from Irene already waiting for him.

> Tuesday or Wednesday after 10. ;)

Irritation prickles at his skin even as his heart beats faster in his chest. Tomorrow it is.

 

***

 

He presses the buzzer, and his foot taps three times against the stoop before he quells it with a scowl. An eternity later, Kate opens the door, her eyes flicking down his body and back up to his face. Impervious to his impatience, her smile turns downright smug before she shifts aside to let him pass. Sherlock shoots her a sidelong glance. “Enjoying yourself?”

She smiles. “Mm. The real question is: are you?” She gives him a wink before abandoning him in the sitting room. No beverage service, this time.

He’s still standing when the Irene appears in the doorway on bare, silent feet. Damp hair falls in waves around her shoulders, and a thin cotton dressing gown clings to wet skin. Instead of the brilliant slash of red from last time, her mouth is nearly naked. She looks younger, but her eyes are no less challenging.

He takes a careful breath. “Trying on a different look?”

She grins. “Why? You like it?”

He leans against the armchair as she comes near, sliding his hands into his pockets. “Attire is irrelevant.”

“Is that so.” She draws close enough to touch, and a frisson of heat tickles over his skin. She traces the line of his jacket, drawing fine wool between her fingers. “Savile Row?”

He twitches a shoulder. “Other people are -- idiots. Overly influenced by appearances.”

Her hand slips inside his jacket, palm gliding over his ribs to catch on his belt. “So this is your battle armour.”

He huffs. “A little fanciful, isn’t it?”

“Mm. Is it?” Her thumb teases under the waist of his trousers in small, mesmerizing circles. “Tell me. What brings you here this time?”

“The spirit of inquiry?” He frowns, pressing his lips together as if to reclaim the questioning note.

She tilts her face toward his, lips barely brushing over his jaw. “So just science, then. The pursuit of knowledge?” she breathes over his skin.

“What else?” His voice is a startlingly low rumble in his chest.

“Sherlock. So fearless in the face of murderers and psychopaths. Afraid to tell me what you want?”

“Indifference isn’t fear.”

“Mmm.” She slides her hand down the front of his flies, where he’s half-hard. “But you’re not indifferent.”

She strokes him through his trousers, a light, teasing touch, and sensation shivers over his skin.

He inhales, a deliberate, steady intake of breath. He looks down, meeting her eyes, and pulls his hands from his pockets. He rests his palm over her neck, running a thumb over the line of her jaw, measuring the tap of her pulse at the carotid artery grow faster under the heel of his hand.

Her eyes meet his, pupils wide and dark. “So. Are you here to talk?”

“No.”

She stands on her toes to reach his mouth, her body leaning against his, pausing when they’re nearly sharing the same breath. She bites his bottom lip, once. “Good.”

Then she’s turning away, gliding across the room in an elegant stride. She turns to crook a finger over her shoulder. “Come along, then.”

 

***

 

Through the entryway and up the stairs, he trails after her. _Like a lost puppy_. Irritation flashes through his blood, and when they reach the upstairs hall he speeds up his stride until he can catch her around the waist.

He presses his body along her back, one arm wrapped around her ribcage. She shivers, and leans back against him with a sly smile. “Impatient?”

He shakes his head, and brushes his lips over her ear. “Bored.” He spreads a palm wide over her ribcage, sliding up to cover her breast, warm through the thin fabric of her dressing gown, brushing his thumb over the nipple. 

She arches against him on a sigh. “Not bad. Let’s see what else you can do.”

She wraps her fingers around his and tugs him into the bedroom. She drops his hand as she crosses toward the bed, slipping the dressing gown off her shoulders to pool on the ground, stepping out of it in one smooth motion.

Naked, she climbs into the center of the bed and folds her legs beneath her. She meets his eyes and pats the bed next to her. “Don’t be shy.”

He moves closer, eyes narrowed. “You certainly aren’t.”

“Why should I be?”

He watches her. “Point taken.”

Without breaking her gaze, he toes off his shoes one by one, then shrugs out of his coat and suit jacket, draping them over the bed post.

She lies back on the bed. “So. You like to... _observe_. I have a job for you.”

He raises one eyebrow.

She stretches, sinuous and elegant, the motion arching her spine and drawing his gaze to her breasts. She trails her fingers lazily over her hip. It’s a production, but no less effective for it. “Make me come.”

His gaze darts from those lazy fingers to meet her eyes. He blinks. “How?”

She smiles. “That’s for you to figure out.”

He’s still wearing his shirt and trousers, but he braces one knee on the edge of the bed, and leans over her, hands planted on the mattress next to her. “You’re being deliberately difficult.”

Her eyes flick to his mouth. “Where’s the fun in being easy?”

Her eyes dart over him, no doubt cataloguing all manner of reactions, and he consciously relaxes the set of his shoulders and slows the speed of his breath.

He lets his gaze slide down her body, recalling her responses to his touch, erogenous zones, the effects of human sex hormones.

He moves one hand to the line of her neck, and slides his palm down over the ridge of her collarbone, and over her breast. He watches her eyes, listens to her breath, the telltale heat of her skin.

She exhales in a rush. “You’re thinking too much.”

He scowls. “I’m observing.”

She sighs. “You treat humans like forensic evidence. Pulse rate, pupil dilation. It’s too cerebral.”

He scowls. “Sex is just physiology. What else is there?”

She grabs his wrist and tugs him off balance, and he topples into her. The breath leaves his lungs in a _whoosh_ as their bodies come into contact. “Instinct. Intuition. _Need_.” She scrapes her teeth over his neck and breathes into his ear. “What do you _want_?”

He huffs, though it sounds more like a gasp. “My brain doesn’t have an _off switch_.”

“I know, I know. The tortured genius. Fine, then keep thinking. But _this_ \--” she wraps an ankle around the back of his knee and presses his body into hers until he groans -- “is part of you, too. Don’t ignore it.”

He frowns.

Her fingers play over his shirt collar. “First, let’s lose this.” 

She unbuttons his shirt with quick, precise motions, and then drops her hands to the buckle of his belt. She runs her fingers over the line of his cock underneath fabric, and he swallows a groan.

She moves his fingers to his own belt buckle. “Keep going.”

She leans to the side and reaches into the nightstand as he unbuckles his belt with unsteady fingers. He braces his weight on one elbow, pulling his belt through the clasp, and pushes his trousers down over his hips.

She drops a condom onto the bed next to them, and then slips her fingers under the fabric of his pants, snug against his hips. She tugs his pants down, hands sliding over his hips, and the fabric catches against his erection, and the breath leaves his lungs.

She opens the foil packet and rolls the condom over his erection, fingers moving back to tease over his balls. She slides her hands under his open shirt and down his back, and then tugs him closer, his cock pressing into the crook of her thigh.

Bare skin against his, her hands sliding over him -- the sensory input is so intense, sends such a shock of pleasure through him, that he drops his forehead to the pillow next to her. His whole body shudders, and his cock twitches, and for a brief horrible moment he thinks he may come right there.

She ruffles her hand in his hair. “Easy there, tiger.”

And like that, the danger is gone. He rolls to the side to tug his pants and trousers the rest of the way off, scowling at her all the while. “ _Don’t_ flatter yourself.”

She just grins, and sits up to tip him onto his back, sliding a leg over his hips and straddling his thighs. She slips her hands under his open shirt, her palms warm and appraising on his chest. “Not bad for someone who’s so… cerebral.”

He presses his lips together. “My body is a tool.”

“So is mine.” She slides forward, until the wet heat of her is pressed firmly against the stiff shaft of his cock. She leans forward, her hands on either side of his head, and grinds against him. _Need_ spikes through him so suddenly that his mouth falls open of its own accord, and his hands move to her hips, gripping reflexively.

She takes his hand, guiding it over her breast and down her ribcage, until his thumb brushes through curls and over hot, slick skin to graze over her clitoris. 

She shivers. “You watched me the other night. Remember how it’s done?”

The memory doesn’t quite retain the same crisp, clean edge most of his experiences have. But he’s nothing if not resourceful.

He moves his thumb, carefully, watching her face. She begins to rock against him, pressing against the stiff, aching shaft of his cock, the sensitive exposed head brushing against his stomach with every motion.

He strokes her, matching the motion of her body against his, sliding his free hand up over her breast, grazing his fingers over the stiff nub of her nipple.

Without warning, she shifts, lifting her hips and taking his cock in hand to sink down on it in one smooth motion. He gasps, hands shifting to grip her hips and thrust up, muscles tight.

Her breath is coming faster, now, and she resumes her pace. His gaze flies to the sight of his slick, hard cock disappearing into her body with every thrust. He pants.

Tendrils of hair stick to her face, and she bats his hand away from her hip. “Keep going,” she pants.

Movements jerky, he returns one hand to the slick curls between her thighs, the other trailing over her thigh, her hip, her ribcage.

She rides him, and he watches her, moving his fingers faster until her movements grow erratic and she’s clenching around him, gasping and clutching his shoulder for balance as she comes.

He’s hard, so hard, and he just needs more, _something_ \-- he sits up as she turns relaxed around him, wrapping an arm around her waist and rolling her onto her back. He wraps his fingers around her wrist and, on impulse, pins it to the bed above her head. He watches her eyes flash and a low surge of triumph snakes up his spine.

He drops his face to her neck and scrapes teeth over skin. “My turn now,” he murmurs.

And then he’s thrusting forward, and she’s hitching her legs around his waist, and yes he has more leverage now, sinking deeper and watching her eyes go dark when their bodies meet.

He thrusts again, harder, snapping his hips with each motion and her back arches. Her legs urge him closer with every thrust, and her free hand slips around the back of his thighs to press clever fingers against the sensitive skin behind his balls.

A jolt of sensation has his hips jerking forward. She continues to press small circles against his perineum, and some nearly-forgotten anatomy lesson bubbles up in his mind. Prostate. She’s manipulating his prostate. This woman is a menace. His cock throbs, and a long, low moan starts in his chest. 

He lets go of her go of her wrist to brace his arm against the mattress, his free hand gripping her hip for better leverage as he sinks into her. Panting, rhythm forgotten, he thrusts into her with abandon, balls growing tight as pleasure pulses low and hot in his spine. Her slick fingers slip higher, teasing over his arehole, shockingly sensitive, and then his head drops to the crook of her neck and his fingers clench in her hair as he comes, muscles frozen for endless seconds as his vision goes blank and his whole body throbs.

He groans into the pillowcase, muscles going weak as aftershocks pulse through him.

She runs her hands down his sides. “Don’t you dare collapse on me.”

His breath escapes in something that might be a laugh, and he shifts to the side, holding the condom as he goes. He collapses onto his back, pulling the filled condom off his over-sensitive cock with a grimace.

He dangles it between his fingers, scowling, and she takes it from him with a roll of her eyes, tying the end with deft fingers and dropping it into a rubbish bin next to the bed.

He watches her fingers work, and then his eyes close, chest heaving. “You’ve had practice.”

“Oh, don’t worry, you’re doing fine.” 

He scowls, and opens one eye.

She slips off the bed and plucks a gauzy dressing gown out of the wardrobe. Clearly the vulnerable post-shower look is over. She ties the sash around her waist. “Well Sherlock, it’s been fun, but I’ve got some calls to make to the States. Shower if you like -- Kate will let you out.”

And then she’s wiggling her fingers in his direction and gliding out the door without a backwards glance.

He blinks, and stretches. He catalogues, something he’d been unforgivably remiss about during their previous encounter. _Prostate stimulation. Fascinating._ Clearly he’d overlooked some variables in his years of masturbation.

Sweat cools on his skin, and he grimaces. A shower might not be amiss. He leans over the side of the bed to retrieve his phone from his trousers, waking the screen.

11:44. 

He thinks of Baker Street, typically dark and still by 12:30, unless they’re on a case. On second thought, he’d rather shower in his own bathroom. God only knew what perfumed soaps Irene kept stocked in hers.

Sherlock rolls off the bed and jumps to his feet, throwing on pants, trousers, shirt, jacket. An excess of clothing, surely.

His socks are nowhere to be seen, and he gives them up for lost, shoving his feet into loafers, bare. And then he’s swinging his coat over his shoulders and clattering down the stairs without a backward glance.

 

***

 

The cabbie is incompetent, and surely partially deaf besides, taking longer to reach Baker Street in the dead of a weekday night than most would take during the height of rush hour.

“No, no, _left_ here! Please tell me this is your first day on the job, or I weep for London commuters.”

But finally he’s climbing the stairs, eyes fixed on the sliver of light under the door of 221b. He presses open the door, and his eyes jump immediately to John, bent over some atrocious novel on the corner of the sofa. Sherlock releases his breath, and his shoulders relax.

He toes off his shoes and strides across the room. He collapses onto the sofa sideways, feet toward John, and sighs. “I’m hungry.”

John’s eyes slice toward Sherlock, then down at Sherlock’s bare feet, then back to his book. “Work up an appetite, then?”

Sherlock crosses his arms over his chest, and closes his eyes.

A long moment of silence passes, and John turns a page. “Curry in the fridge.”

The _fridge_. That’s too much effort to bear thinking about. He tucks his bare feet under John’s thighs. “My feet are cold.”

“I can tell.” John’s voice is resigned, but his hand drops to Sherlock’s foot, palm cupped warm over the knob of his ankle.

Sherlock sighs, sinking more comfortably into the sofa. His muscles relax, and his mind hums rather than churns, and maybe there is something to this sex lark, after all. His thoughts drift back to Ogden Marsh and the stones. He isn’t missing anything, of course. Ridiculous to have considered it. He’ll text Lestrade in the morning and tell him so.

He wakes with a start. The room is quiet and still, unremarkable but for the blanket draped over him and the bowl of reheated curry occupying the side table.

A lined piece of paper sits next to it, torn from John’s notebook and adorned with a doctor’s scrawl: “eat!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! This writing lark is hard work. Irene is so much fun to write, though. Thank you for taking a chance on this WIP! I promise you it's filling all of my spare hours/minutes/brain cycles. :)


End file.
